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“I’m not a little kid anymore.”
Mike Eaton paced around his hotel room, frustration ebbing from him. His hands balled into fists as he he stopped dead in the center of the room and proclaimed, “I AM NOT A LITTLE KID ANYMORE!”
“No one says you are,” Brandon Schultz said calmly, entering the room with his own door key. Mike and Brandon were rooming together, a byproduct of not knowing their Steward’s Cup plans until the last minute. Everything else had been sold out.
“I feel like they still think I am,” Mike explained. “You weren’t around, but I was like a whiz kid or something when I first started training. But I’m a real adult now.”
“I think they treat Tim Matthews the same way,” Brandon said, “and he trained a Derby winner. But maybe it’s not so bad. Maybe they are fond of you.”
Mike grinned crookedly. “At least the Steward treats me better than how she treats you!”
Brandon laughed awkwardly. “It’s okay, she does it out of love.”
“Really?” Mike asked. “I’ve seen her trash talk you live in front of other people. It’s kind of rough.”
Brandon shrugged. “It’s cool. We’ve got an understanding. She kind of uses me to blow off steam when she’s grouchy about something. Besides, it hasn’t stopped me at all.”
Mike nodded. “It took me years to get where I am, and you have three legitimate shots in one Steward’s Cup race.”
Brandon shrugged again. “I’d rather have the Crown winner though.”
“I almost didn’t run him,” Mike admitted. I thought about going to the Dirt Mile, or going to Japan. But he deserves a shot.”
“He does,” Brandon agreed, crawling into bed fully clothed.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Mike asked. “Who sleeps in jeans?”
“I do when I have to get up at 3:45!” Brandon protested. “Don’t judge me. Go to bed.”
--
Tuesday morning dawned cold and foggy. Mike Bryant parked at his barn 43 just after the sun had risen, coffee in hand. Four reporters stood in a semi-circle outside his office, ready to pounce. One overly eager young photographer shot a ridiculous photo of him halfway out of his car, Tim Horton’s cup balanced in hand.
“Seriously?” Mike asked the photographer. She squeaked and blushed.
“Mr. Bryant,” the bravest of the reporters started, stepping forward. “Can you talk to us about your change of heart?”
“You’re going to have to be more specific.”
“Well, Private Affair wasn’t entered in the Classic. You switched him last minute to the Marathon.”
Mike found it difficult not to stare at the reporter as if he were stupid. “He wasn’t going to get into the Classic. So of course I moved him to the Marathon.”
“Is this a reflection on how the horse is doing? Is he not on his A Game?”
This time Mike couldn’t hide his expression. “What are you talking about? It’s a reflection on the fact that he didn’t have enough points.”
He ignored the rest of the questions and ducked down the aisle towards Private Affair’s stall. A burly security guard – there was one hired for each barn – stepped in the group’s way, blocking their entry into the barn.
Private Affair lowered his soft muzzle into Mike’s hands, and snuffed quietly. The bay horse had a velvet coat and gentle eyes, and was one of Mike’s all time favorites. “Next year,” he promised the colt. “Next year you’ll get in the big race.”
--
The Hall of Fame at Toronto Racecourse had been built into the Grandstand section, tucked in next to the tiny gift shop. A steady stream of trainers had been wandering in and out all week long, looking at past champions and wondering if maybe, just maybe, their horse would be there one day.
Nick Gilmore, Glenn Escobar and Polk Buffalo wandered in at same time and began to roam around the displays in a loose group.
The largest display belonged to the Canadian Triple Crown. Large plaques held the names of the winners of each race, with empty space left for the names of future champions.
"Could you take a picture for me?" Christophe Desjardin approached and held out his phone, thanking Glenn when he took hold of it. Christophe crouched down and posed next to the name 'Greatest Stage' on the Breeder's Stakes plaque. As Glenn snapped the picture for him Christophe felt determined to add another of his horses to the Hall.
Nick, who had been there dozens of times, and Polk, a first-time visitor, continued forward towards the section for the Triple Crown winners. Glossy photographs covered the long span of time starting with the mighty Conduit and ending with side by side displays of Pete Vella's back to back winners, Lazy Dog and Avenger.
Sammy Roseman looked up from the display as the group approached him. "Have you seen this?" he asked, pointing to a picture of a regal looking bay captioned LOKI DYNASTY. "He went right to the Queen's Derby after winning the Louisville one. I’ve never heard of anything like that!"
Polk shrugged. "Unconventional, but hey, we'd all love a Derby winner we could make that choice with." Heads nodded thoughtfully around them, including Chris Barber's, who was leaning on the wall next to the displays while texting on his phone.
When Chris wasn't watching over his filly Here Comes the Sin, he was checking the Stall Cam pointed at Champagne Supernova, who was down in Florida competing in the Two Year Old Sprint Championship. Like many trainers, Chris wished he could clone himself during Steward’s Cup week.
The group wandered to the next area, which focused on the years that the track had held the Steward’s Cup. Nick stepped forward, searching, until her eyes lit up and she tapped a small photo titled Fishing the Keys. It was pouring rain in the photo but you could see the smile beaming from a younger Nick as she held the bridle of a mud splattered horse in the winner’s circle.
"That was my first Steward’s Cup win," she explained, a fond look on her face. "Maybe Kingslayer will get me another picture here where I'm not soaking wet, eh?"
"I think I'd look pretty good up here with Dubai Thriller," Glenn agreed with a grin. "I'll come up with some good poses, maybe flex in the winner's circle."
They all laughed, while simultaneously wishing they could all win trophies by week’s end.
--
Mike Springer was so busy texting that he nearly collided with a pole, topped by a sign pointing riders to the training track.
“Oh, s-“ Mike said, looking around to see if anyone had noticed. Unfortunately, Kent and Cindy Saunders were sitting at a picnic bench just outside their barn, downing coffees in a leisurely manner.
“Watch where you’re walking, Mike,” Kent said jovially. “A pole might jump out and get you.”
Mike rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t normally do that,” he said. “I’m distracted lately.”
Cindy smiled kindly. “It’s Steward’s Cup week. Of course you are!”
A year ago, Mike had had one of the best horses in the world, Fire to Look At. Now he was represented by a couple of longshots and Don’t Forget Me, the defending champion of the Turf. The big horse hadn’t won since April, but he had run well enough to earn a trip back.
“You guys have a nice day,” he said, hurrying away, passing Darcy McBride on his path. “Morning!” Darcy said brightly, but Mike was texting again and didn’t notice.
Darcy continued towards Barn 16, which she was sharing with Tom Mudgett. Quiet and good natured, Tom was the perfect barn mate. And whenever Darcy had to run out, Tom helped keep an eye on her powerhouse duo of Jubilation and Kentucky Storm. Between them, they had 17 wins. Frustratingly, neither would go favored in the Dirt Mile. That honor would likely go to Marvel.
“All good?” Darcy asked Tom.
He nodded, looking up from his Feature Race newspaper. “Four or five people came around to see my colt.”
“Really?”
“No, of course not,” Tom laughed. “No one cares about him. But they were looking for a glimpse of Jubilation. I chased them away and let him sleep.”
Darcy nodded gratefully. “Thanks, Tom. I just want this to be over.”
“Don’t we all?”